“Stop,” he said. ‘Why do you think I told you about the portrait? I’d not seen it, of course, but I’d seen Miss Mary just before she got married, which is when it was painted. It never is. That he was immolating Ruth on the altar of his conscience never broke in upon his thought for consideration. You've betrayed yourself, Thames. She imagined herself on a barren 41 plain, post-Apocalypse, convulsing, waiting to die with the cockroach. She laughed as the deluge seemed to grow worse with every step. Then, her body still tense with the atoms of anger, she sat down upon the edge of the bed and rocked from side to side. To-morrow, we'll go to the Fleet and get spliced.
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